


A Less Than 'Paw-fect' Meeting

by mothjons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Martin has bad taste in guys, Meet-Cute, S1, meet-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons
Summary: “I’m sorry, what?”Oh – that tone wasn’t great.“Uh, a dog – a spaniel … I think?”The other man blinked, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I – in general, or …?”Martin laughed in an attempt to bring levity to the situation – or by way of disguising the sudden panic he now felt. “No, in the archives.”The man’s face darkened, his features elongating intimidatingly. It was incredibly unfair that Martin’s first thought was ‘Oh, he’s pretty’ and not ‘I have made a huge mistake coming in here’.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 139





	A Less Than 'Paw-fect' Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Alex and Jonny .... thank you for this scene

“Ah, where did you go?” muttered Martin to himself, as he weaved between the desks that littered the Archives, peering under them as he walked. “What do I even call out? Dog? Here dog?”

He shook his head, waving the nonsense away. He would be here somewhere – he had to be. And _yes_ , the spaniel had been a _lot_ faster than him, but he couldn’t have gotten _that_ far. Martin stopped for a moment, trying to listen to any sounds of paws against linoleum, or tell-tale barking.

Hm, nothing – that would be his luck.

He groaned into the empty, and dog-less, room, knocking his head back for dramatic effect. It was in that moment he heard talking – just the one voice, talking to themselves by the sound of it. The voice came from behind a thick wooden door, beautifully engraved, and left slightly ajar. Whoever was behind there might be willing to help – hell, they would probably laugh at the situation.

He walked over to it, pushing the door wide. “Hey, sorry – you haven’t seen a dog, have you?”

The voice belonged to a skinny looking man, with short cropped dark hair, shot through with silver. It was pushed back, away from his face; jutting and angular, that wore thick rimmed glasses, of which he was peering over towards Martin, his eyes as dark as his hair, speckled with reflected light.

It wasn’t that Martin had a type per say - but this man was definitely his type. At Martins words, his face had creased into confusion. 

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

Oh – that tone wasn’t great.

“Uh, a dog – a spaniel … I think?”

The other man blinked, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I – in general, or …?”

Martin laughed in an attempt to bring levity to the situation – or by way of disguising the sudden panic he now felt. “No, in the archives.”

The man’s face darkened, his features elongating intimidatingly. It was incredibly unfair that Martin’s first thought was ‘Oh, he’s pretty’ and not ‘I have made a huge mistake coming in here’.

“Why would there be a dog in the archives?” bit the man, his eyebrow rising upwards, arched in growing anger.

Martin shrunk slightly, feeling his cheeks warm. “Oh, cause, well – like – ”

“Who are you?” said the man suddenly.

Martin blinked – he hadn’t expected that. Most people in the Magnus Institute knew who he was, he had been working there for almost a decade, after all. And, whilst he didn’t know this man’s name – he could say confidently that he recognised him. Research, his mind offered – that seemed right, this man definitely looked suited to the halls of research. Which begged the question, what was _he_ doing there?

But the question being asked currently was regarding Martin. He gave a nervous laugh. “Uh, uh – Martin. I – and cause I may’ve … let him in?”

Oh, that did nothing to soften the man’s expression, only worked to add another line of confusion to his brow. “What? Why?”

“Uh, well, I didn’t mean to, you know,” began Martin, his tone wavering slightly in nervous trepidation of the other mans reply. “We were outside, making, uh – friends. And – and then I had to come in, but – ” was he sweating slightly? God, how fast was his heart beating? “ – my hands were full, and the doors really heavy, so – so I had to use my foot.” For some reason, Martin felt that demonstrating his method would help the situation; he let his grip on the heavy wooden door drop, and pushed his foot out to catch it. It hit his foot with a foot, and he hid a muffled ‘ow’ under his breath. “ – and then he sort of, like, got past me?”

Martin wasn’t even done trying to explain before the stranger started talking over him: “Why were you coming into the archives?”

“Oh!” sounded Martin. “Uh, I – I work here.”

The man made a sound that could’ve been called a laugh, but one of disbelief rather than mirth. It did nothing to ease the palpitations in Martin’s chest.

“No, you don’t,” he stated. Martin raised an eyebrow in questioning confusion. “I requested Tim, and I requested Sasha – and _you_ are neither.”

He pointed towards Martin with that, hitting the ‘you’ with a voice dripping in poison. It seemed entirely overkill, in Martin’s opinion. But stating that didn’t seem like it would ease tensions. There didn’t seem like there was much Martin could do to soften the conversation. Once Martin had finished processing the tone, his brain started on the words, and – oh.

Oh no.

“Oh – _ohh_ ,” exclaimed Martin. “You’re Jonathon Sims. Yeah, uh, Mr Bouchard said I – I’d be working for you.”

The look on Jonathon’s face seemed better fitted for a man who had just been told that Martin was being paid to come in every day to play bagpipes in a leotard.

“Well,” he sneered. “He didn’t tell me anything about it.”

“He, uh – he said that, uh – well, he transferred me from the Library, so …” Martin trailed off, wishing desperately to be anywhere that wasn’t under the scrutinizing stare of Jonathon Sims. He cursed the part of his brain that sang ‘well, he has very nice eyes, so it’s not really all that bad that he’s staring at you, is it?’.

It was bad, it was very bad – his brain was just being cruel by adding an unnecessary and unwarranted stream of affectionate thoughts to their, quite unpleasant, conversation.

“ … so, I’m your boss,” finished Jonathon, and Martin saw the faintest hint of a smile twitch at the edges of his lips. Usually, that would be good.

That didn’t seem good, though.

“I guess.”

The smile grew. “Which means that technically, I have the power to dismiss you if this ‘dog situation’ is not resolved immediately.”

“I mean, yeah.” He laughed, and the sound sounded wrong in the stuffy office. He silenced it with a cough. “Probably.”

Jonathon didn’t reply verbally, instead responded by inclining his neck, so as to better, metaphorically, loom over Martin from his desk. His eyebrow rose expectantly.

Realisation hit Martin, and his eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh, yes! Right, yes – sorry! Uh, I’ll – sorry.”

With that, Martin dropped the door close, and marched away from the office, his pace verging on a sprint.

God, god – god!

That could not have gone any worse if an evil entity had manipulated the situation to their will. He gave a loud groan, as he knocked the palm of his hands against his temple, as if attempting to knock all memory of that disastrous encounter out of his head.

His thoughts should be racing with insults, mustering up a plan to get back at his new boss, and messaging a friend: _Hey, you’ll never guess what just happened …_

But instead, his thoughts were looping back to how pretty Jonathon’s eyes had looked in that dark office, and how, oddly, nice it felt to have him look at Martin with them – even if they had just been used to stress the stream of threats coming out of his mouth.

But his voice had been so nice … elegant, and refined; and possibly emphasised for show … but, hey – Martin could hardly judge his boss for, _ahem_ , altering facts about themselves.

A bark broke him free of his thoughts, and – _oh, thank god._

“There you are!” He cried, and then, “Oh, no – oh please don’t do that there – ah, _shit_.”


End file.
